


Stitches by the Sea

by SunflowerSkys



Series: The Stitches that Bind us Together [2]
Category: Avatar: The Last Airbender
Genre: Based on traditional Japenese embroidery customs, Iroh's trying to be a supportive Uncle, Let the boy sew, Mentions of Azula, Ozai (Avatar) Being a Terrible Parent, Ozai (Avatar) is an Asshole, Zhao (Avatar) Is An Asshole, Zuko is an Awkward Turtleduck, Zuko is silently judging everyone's clothing choices, Zukos crew is not sure what to do with a literal child, give him a break
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-26
Updated: 2020-08-18
Packaged: 2021-03-05 22:42:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,717
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25533043
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SunflowerSkys/pseuds/SunflowerSkys
Summary: A few hours later, a strip of land emerges on the horizon.Zuko watches it from the porthole in his room. It seems unchanging, no matter how hard he stares at it. He wishes he had something to fill the time with while he waits, but he really doesn’t feel like pouring over his small collection of scrolls on the Avatar again. He thinks bitterly of his embroidery kit, safely stashed miles away in his bedroom. He knows he can’t blame Iroh, it’s not like he was up to telling him where it was.(and that it even existed in the first place)A continuation of my ideas about traditional embroidery in ATLA
Relationships: Azula & Zuko (Avatar), Iroh & Zuko (Avatar), Zuko & Zuko's Crew (Avatar)
Series: The Stitches that Bind us Together [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1842907
Comments: 28
Kudos: 357





	1. Stitches by the Sea

**Author's Note:**

> I would recommend reading the first part if you've just clicked onto this, but you dont have to!  
> Thanks to anyone who liked the first part!

After a week at sea, he really should be used to it by now, he thinks. Yet he still stumbles around deck as the waves roll the ship up and down. Granted, he has been practically unconscious for the last few days, but that’s really no excuse. He's glad Uncle has finally allowed him out of his room, there’s only so much wall someone can stare at before they start to go a little insane. The bandage around his eye itches, and he resists the urge to scratch it, to pull it off and throw it into the churning sea. Even though they’ve apparently been going at full speed, they’re not yet out of Fire Nation waters. It’s like the ocean is clinging to their boat with its sticky, salty fingers.

( _he really hates the sea_ ) 

The crew are milling around the ship, doing their various jobs. They occasionally salute him as he stumbles past, and he knows they’re only doing it because they have to, not out of any real respect. He finally reaches the helm, where the lieutenant, Jee he thinks he heard someone call him, and Uncle are staring intently at the maps laid out in front of them. They are caught in something reminiscent of an argument, although he knows that the lieutenant would never dare disrespect the _Dragon of the West_ by arguing with him. He stands before them (as best as he can) and loudly clears his throat. They both look up at him, Iroh questioningly, and Jee with a surprised jerk. 

“ _What's the hold up?_ ” he demands in the voice he's been practicing in his room. Jee stands to attention, stiff and formal. 

“My prince,” he begins, “your esteemed uncle wishes to take us immediately out of Fire Nation territory-” Iroh cuts in front of him. 

“I don’t just wish it,” he says in that irritatingly calm voice he always seems to use, “I strongly recommend it.” 

Zuko tries to hide his confusion. “Well, why don’t we just leave? The quicker we leave, the quicker we’ll find the Avatar.” 

Jee winces. “It’s not that simple. We left the capitol in such a hurry, we barely had time to pick up the sailors, let alone the supplies for a trip to the Western air temple. We _must_ pick up supplies, or risk being stuck with no drinking water, and nothing to eat.” Iroh tucks his arms into his sleeves. “It was in utter necessity that we left so quickly. My brother had commanded us to be out of Fire Nation territory, and I did not wish to rebuke his wishes.” “However,” he continues thoughtfully, “I suppose the matter still stands, and indeed we must pick up supplies at the nearest port.” 

Jee nods in agreement. “That would be wise. We’re already running low on supplies, and I do not wish to run out.” 

“Then the matter is agreed. The only thing left to discuss is which port would be best to dock at.” 

They both return to scrutinizing the maps, and Zuko leaves, feeling as though he's been dismissed. 

A few hours later, a strip of land emerges on the horizon. Zuko watches it from the porthole in his room. It seems unchanging, no matter how hard he stares at it. He wishes he had something to fill the time with while he waits, but he really doesn’t feel like pouring over his small collection of scrolls on the Avatar again. He thinks bitterly of his embroidery kit, safely stashed miles away in his bedroom. He knows he can’t blame Iroh, it’s not like he was up to telling him where it was. 

( _and that it even existed in the first place_ ) 

Hopefully, he’ll be back soon enough to reclaim it, once of course he's fulfilled his mission of capturing the elusive Avatar. 

He must have dozed off, because the next time he looks up, the sun is high in the sky, and he can see busy vendors bustling around their stalls and shops. He makes his way up to the deck, ready to disembark, but a hand on his shoulder stops him. He jolts forward, and nearly punches Iroh in the face. “Prince Zuko” Says Uncle calmly, as if nothing had happened. “I do not believe it would be wise for you to leave the ship yet. We are still in Fire Nation waters after all, and we do not want to draw anymore attention to us then we already have.” Zuko shrugs him off angrily. “You think I can’t handle an attack by _peasents_?” Iroh shakes his head. “I do not doubt your skill, but I am worried that someone would recognise you, and alert the authorities. It would be best for everyone if you stayed behind for now.” As much as he wants to, Zuko can’t find a reason to argue with that logic, so he angrily marches away, back to his bare and empty room. 

He watches as Iroh and Jee, along with a few other crew members, disembark. The ramp creaks as they walk down it, the boat is old and rusty in places. He knows that they’ll be gone for at least a couple of hours collecting supplies, and he slams his window shut. However, as he lies on his bed, a plan slinks into his bored mind. Not many people really know exactly what he looks like, especially with half of his face wrapped in bandages. In fact, without his royal clothes, and with his phoenix tail covered, he would be surprised if even the guards in this port could recognise him. A half formed plan in his mind, he roots around in his closet for suitable clothing. It looks like Uncle just grabbed most of the clothes in his cupboard at home to bring with them, and for once he is glad so many useless items were brought along. He pulls out the plainest robe he has, something he brought once for a game where Azula forced him to play the peasant. It’s too small for him, the shoulders are too tight, and his wrists stick out too far, but it will do. He sticks his head out of the door to check for guards, before wrapping a scarf round his head, slipping out of the window and down the side of the boat. 

The dock is crowded. People push and shove each other, and the noise of squabbling vendors and chattering customers blend into a wall of sound. The red, browns and flashes of gold cloth are so thick he can barely see the stall displays. For a minute over the shrieks of the gull-rats, he thinks he hears Iroh’s voice ahead of him, and in a panic, ducks into the nearest shop. 

It’s less crowded inside the shop, practically empty in fact. The walls are dusty brown, and it smells of age, like the temples he and Azula are sometimes forced to visit. The shop keeper is wizened with age, wrinkles ingrained deeply in his face. “Buy something, or get out!” he croaks angrily when his eyes alight on Zuko. “I will not stand you young ruffians messing up my shop again!” Zuko hastily begins to examine the wares; he can’t risk a lecture from Uncle about safety, and he would prefer to know that the coast was 100% clear before heading out again. However, as he looks, he feels a shiver of familiarity run through him. Rolls of silk, spools of thread, packs of needles… “this is a tailor shop” he blurts out. He doesn’t turn around, but he can almost hear the roll of the shopkeeper’s eyes. “What did you think it was?” he barks “A libary?” Zuko shuts up, cursing himself silently. He continues browsing, losing himself in his homesickness. The shop is pretty dark, they obviously don’t want to risk a fire, and he finds himself thankful that there are no candles in the dimmer corners. He’s immediately angry at himself: The _Prince_ of the _Fire Nation_ has no right to be afraid of fire of all things. 

He hesitantly picks out a small stretch of material, a couple of needles, packs of thread, and an old wooden hoop. Small things, things that can be easily hidden. He brings them up to the counter, where the shopkeeper inspects them. “That’ll be 10 copper coins.” He says eventually, just as Zuko had been about to worry that his cover had somehow been broken. He reaches into his pockets, and immediately feels his heart sink. In his rush to get off the ship, he didn’t think to bring any money with him. He wasn’t even expecting to buy anything. He draws out 3 copper coins from his pockets: they’ve probably been there for ages, forgotten and unrequired. 

He lays them out on the table. “I’m sorry, this is all I have.” His voice sounds pitiful and weak, and he hates it. Something changes in the shopkeeper’s eyes. He’s not sure what it is. Years of Azula’s lies have forced him to become better at reading people, yet it had never been enough in his family. However, this man has probably never had a sister with those sort of questionable tendencies, and his lack of repressed facial expressions show it. The man clears his throat. “Well, now that I take a closer look, these threads are really too poor, and the needles are far too dull. I should really be throwing these out. I suppose three copper pieces is the most anybody could get for this.” He sweeps the money into a rusted box, and glares when he sees Zuko is still there. “ _Well_? Get going then why don’t you?!” Zuko doesn’t need to be told twice. He grabs the wares and hurriedly exits the shop. He doesn’t want to stick around to find out what warranted the sudden change of heart. 

( _What he didn't see is what the shop keeper saw, a young boy, small for his age, face smothered in thick bandages, voice painfully hoarse. Another broken child of war)_

The port is as crowded as ever, and he hurries back to the ship, no longer wanting to be outside with the swirling masses. He makes it up the side of the boat in a matter of seconds, silently pulling himself into his room. He changes, shoving the used clothes deep into his cupboard. He holds the bundle in his lap. Its just a small thing, but it reminds him of home, of better times. And he could really use some hope right now. 

It’s not long before the others return to the ship. He hears them clanking up the ramp, feels the boat shudder to life as they set off once again. There’s a quiet knock at his door and Uncle enters. He looks relieved to see Zuko lying flat on his back. “Nephew..” he begins. “What.” Zuko replies, keeping his voice as flat as possible. “…Nothing, I am just glad you took my advice to heart. We will be out of Fire Nation territory soon, and you would be welcome to join us to get supplies.” Zuko turns to face the wall. He really doesn’t feel like having a conversation. He hears the quiet click of a closing door, and then no more.


	2. The Joys of Meeting Strangers

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> New chapter (though I'm not really sure how many people are acctually interested haha)  
> Constructive criticism is always appreciated, and stay safe!

It feels like they've been at sea for years, though in reality it’s only been a few months. He’s not sure he can remember a time without the constant rocking anymore. They've been to two temples already, and even remembering them makes him feel ill. Bad enough the piles of almost casually discarded bones, both Fire Nation and Air Nomad mixed together, but there was no sign of the Avatar either. He still remembers walking into what he thought was a cold and empty room, only to find it wasn’t empty, but filled with hollow yellow and wasted remains. He hadn’t stuck around to gather them, though he knows that he should have. He had watched from the ruined buildings as smoke from the cremated bodies drifted across the pale sky. They had separated the bones as best they could, but surely some still lay together as they burnt.

Now, he runs ancient fabric through his fingers, spared from the callousness of weather by a mainly intact roof. He had taken it from another desolate room, as a reminder he supposes. Because once he finds the Avatar, the war will be over and nothing like this will happen again. It's interesting he thinks, in a morbid kind of way, how similar the materials between their nations are. The styles may be different, but the fabrics themselves are roughly the same. Both woven with intricate pattens, both of them beautiful. But one of them has now been lost forever. 

**....**

Clouds chase each other through the sky. The Earth Kingdom dock they've stopped at is quiet, not like the first ( _and last_ ) Fire Nation port they docked in. The streets are poorer here too, smaller, greyer. He thinks ruefully of spices so hot they burn your mouth, of the hot summer days when heat shimmered across the ground in silver waves. He feels cold now, emptier than he has ever been. He pushes his feelings away. He doesn’t have time to wallow in self-pity, not when his future is at stake. Every minute he spends dreaming could be a minute gathering information. 

The first few times they visited ports, his crew members had followed him almost obsessively when he disembarked, not letting him out of their sight for a minute. ( _probably on his dammed uncle's orders he thinks angrily_ ) Every small street he had walked down had been accompanied by the clanking and creaking of armoured plates, drowning out any tentatively calling vendors. However, the crew are more relaxed now, and he finds it easier to slip away into the narrow ally ways. On his first trips into ports, he had worn his full ceremonial armour, not wanting to hide his birth right. It was heavy, and uncomfy, but he wore it proudly. However, people are hard to buy from when scared. The strongest spirited ones of them raise prices to exorbitant levels, and the weaker sellers’ hand everything over without considering better deals. Dressed as he is in darker and plainer reds, though he hates hiding, he does get better bargains. He can even put his few years of lessons on political strategies and manoeuvring into use when haggling with shopkeepers. 

People don’t seem to mind his gold eyes to much; they’re used to them he supposes. The most they give him are distrustful, or sometimes even pitying looks, and of course, raised prices. He quietly collects the supplies when needed, and doesn’t make a fuss when he pays twice as much as the buyer before him, though inside he is bubbling with anger. The crew hate it when he runs off, and Uncle gives him looks filled with pure disappointment as he gently force feeds him calming tea. So, he only breaks off from the rest of the crew when he really wants to, usually waiting till one of them inevitably loses their attention before making his move. 

Now, he wanders down the stony streets with no real idea of where he's going, swords tucked against his back in easy reach. Perhaps he will find another book on the Avatar, or maybe another shop to pick up more thread and materials. Even the thought of sewing irritates him. No matter how hard he tries, he just can’t seem to break the habit. The problem is, sometimes it’s the only thing that can calm him down. 

When he first arrived on the ship, newly scarred and banished, the candles he was supposed to meditate by had been a source of fear rather than relaxation. Every wild flicker would send him jumping backwards, his heartbeat crying out in his ears. The candles would stutter, and his confidence would stutter in time. The embroidery was different. It had a blend of just enough focus and patience to calm him down, though the feeling was often evanescent. He’s better with the fire now. He’s begun training again (though it’s really just baby stuff) and he no longer shudders at open flames. But the embroidery still remains a source of peace for him, no matter how hard he tries to pretend otherwise. 

His thoughts are interrupted by loud voices at the end of the street, breaking through the quiet chatter of the birds perched on the roof tops around him. He keeps his head low and ducks round a corner, keeping out of sight and out of trouble. He dreads to think of Uncles look of sadness if he found out the Zuko had gotten himself involved in a street fight, so he watches silently as the scene ahead of him unfolds. It’s hard to see what’s going on, but he makes out a number of large figures, about four or five of them, gathered in a large huddle. He carefully moves closer to get a better look. A thin shopkeeper stands in front of his small and decrepit shop, speaking in a high and reedy voice that travels along the wind. 

“I told you, I’ve already paid you!” The man is trembling so violently that Zuko can see the movements from his spot down the street. “I’ve given you everything I have!” 

One of the men steps forward. He’s easily twice the size of the shop keeper, and about three times as thick. He swings his fists as he walks, adorned with a pair of copper knuckles that glint threateningly in the weak afternoon sun. “Well,” he smiles menacingly, “It doesn’t seem to have been enough.” 

Zuko can already hear Uncles voice lecturing him in his head. This is exactly the type of situation he's been told to avoid. Jump in now, and he’d be outnumbered, and possibly outmatched. The easiest thing to do would be to walk away, forget he saw this, to move on. But some part of him still feels the injustice, the helplessness. He makes up his mind, and steps into view. _He's really going to regret this..._

The men look up as he approach. “Move along now boy, if you know what’s good for you,” the leader grunts “Nothing to do with you here.” 

Zuko stands resolutely, unmoved. 

“I’m not going to repeat myself,” the leader growls again. “Scram!” 

When he sees how Zuko still hasn’t moved, he cracks a grin. “Well boys, looks like we’re going to get a little warmup first before we collect what’s rightfully ours.” 

The men circle around him, hungry tiger-wolves descending on their prey. The shopkeeper has retreated inside, and watches nervously from a small window. Zuko stays calm. He refuses to let the men scare him. He flicks his wrist igniting two twin flame daggers in his clenched fists. They’re smaller than their supposed to be, but its more than he could do a month ago. However, this has the opposite effect of the intimidation he’d been hoping for. The men start backwards, real hatred flashing in their eyes, and he has a suspicion that this fight would have been easier if he’d started with his swords instead. 

“Half breed scum!” one of the thugs spits. “You should have left when you had the chance!” Then they surge forward, and the fight begins for real. 

The fight is quick and fast paced. Luckily for him, the men don’t seem to be particularly experienced fighters, relying on mainly brawn to scare off attackers. They don’t even have good quality weapons. Two of them are earthbenders, but fortunately not particularly strong ones. They flick their small chunks of rock at him, which he deflects with a mixture of fire, and his swords which he had drawn when the men advanced. He smacks one of them with the flat of his blade, instantly knocking them unconscious. He can’t help feeling a little bad; head injuries are no laughing matter. He breaks another mans flimsy sword in half, and the man, left with a useless sword hilt quickly retreats. He hears the thudding of footsteps behind him, and swings round, burning another man across the hand. They quickly back away, clinging to their arm in pain. The leader roars, enraged. 

_"I'll teach you to burn my men you little weasel-rat!"_

He advances, fists raised in attack. He’s big, and strong, and his first strike nearly connects with Zuko’s head. He just manages to duck out of the way, weaving around and behind him. The man turns round clumsily. His stance is firm, but he keeps breaking it. Zuko keeps light on his feet, fast like a mouse-deer, deadly as a snake-cat. “ _The key is balance._ ” Uncles voice echoes in his mind. “ _Balance and breath. Keep both, and you may have a chance of winning."_

He breathes, deep breaths to fill his lungs and lower his heart rate. His stance strong, he begins his counterattack, commanding the fire within him to strike. His flames are of poor quality, but they do the job. The man retreats backwards, face contorted in anger. “How _dare_ you use your filthy bending against me!” He rages. “Your mother should have drowned you when she first saw those terrible yellow eyes. You’re a disgrace! Go back to that Nation of ashmakers where you belong, or, better yet, let me kill you now! It would be a mercy, and I would be happy to do it.” 

The only good thing about this outburst is that it causes the man to become even more unbalanced, and seeing his chance, Zuko takes it. He moves forward, keeping his stance low, before leaping up and smacking the man over the head with the hilt of one of his swords. The man topples like a felled tree, collapsing to a crumpled heap at Zuko’s feet, startled expression still etched on his face. Zuko’s blood is ringing in his ears as he stares down at the figure that was attacking him mere moments ago. It would be too easy just to kill him now, that’s what a proper soldier would do. He’d even defeated him in battle, it would be within his every right to burn him, _to teach him respect._ But he just can’t bring himself to do it. 

He slides his swords back into their sheath, and steps backwards. The shopkeeper is cowering in his window, clearly terrified. He ignores him. It’s not his problem. The two men he defeated lie unconscious, the rest having fled. Hopefully, some sort of authority figure will pick them up sooner or later, he really can’t find it in him to care. 

The journey back to the rest of the crew is quick and uneventful. He joins them as they trundle their supplies up the ramp and into the ship. Uncle is caught up in examining some worthless new teapot he seems to have brought himself, and Zuko slips past him and away into his room, where he can bandage his bruises in peace.


	3. Sounds of the Sea

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another day, another chapter. Constructive critisism is always appreciated!

The boat screeches sadly through the frothy water. The engines are on the verge of defeat, it’s a miracle that they’ve even made it this far.

(Of course, miracles seem to be happening all over the place nowadays) 

The last couple of days have been filled with hectic scramble. After they’d dug the boat out of the coating of ice, they’d begun their limp back to the nearest port. Unfortunately it happened to be one that Zhao often frequented, but he can only hope that he won’t be there, though he knows how the spirits just love spiting him. The sailors slink around him, still shivering off the lingering cold that comes from being frozen in ice by a powerful thought-to-be-long-dead Avatar. Fortunaly there had been no casualties, and as soon as everyone had been safely accounted for, hey had freed themselves and pushed on. 

He stands on the deck amidst the squalling gusts of wind, and fights off the demanding urge to yawn. He’s barely had time to relax recently, let alone properly sleep. He stares intensly at the waves that swirl before him, as if in the hope that the Avatar will rise up out of the ocean in front of him… 

“Prince Zuko.” 

He turns around towards the voice that inturupts his thoughts, but it’s only Uncle, his hands neatly folded in his sleeves. 

“What.” He asks, keeping his impatience curbed under the false calmness of his voice. “I don’t have time to talk at the moment, or drink your _calming tea_. There are more important things going on right now.” 

“Pacing around the deck won’t make the ship go any faster. Unless we aquire a waterbender anytime soon, we’re going to keep moving at the same pace until we reach the port.” 

_It might not make the ship go faster, but at least it gives me time to think._

_“Well then,_ ” He fights back the urge to shout. “I should be training! Preparing! At least doing something _useful_. The Avatar may look like a child, but that trick’s not going to fool me twice. Not now I know how dangerous he really is.” 

Uncle shakes his head as he speaks, something indescribable in his eye, a mix of sadness and pity that instinctivly makes him defensive. 

“The best thing that you can do now is rest. If you want to prepare yourself, you need to sleep. Worrying won’t do you any good, and neither will training in this state.” 

“I’m not worried.”He mutters under his breath, but Uncle has already swept away, giving no idication of hearing him. He glares round the deck. There's nothing for him to do out here, and he might as well get some rest in preperation for the inevitable fighting that is sure to come. With those thoughts in mind, he returns to his room. 

Despite living on the boat for nearly two years, his room still remains practicaly as bare as the day he first saw it. There are a few differences of course; scrolls lie in tangled piles in overfowing chests, and his swords hold a prominet place on his wall. But the original drapings are sill there, burning red and black, a reminder of his quest, and the things he has lost. He supposes it’s a habit, keeping his room clean and hiding the things he cares about lest people burn them to ashes. He lies on the bed, focusing on the dull ceiling. It’s the same as it always is, albiet adorned with a few more cobwebs than the day before. It doesn’t really matter. A clean ceiling isn’t going to be the thing that gets him home. _Home…_

The embroidery he pulls out from under the bed is half finished, the sightless eyes of an orca-moose stare back at him from the cloth. There are other things buried under his bed too, whale-fish and shark-dolphin. Even in his art he cannot escape the ocean. There have been other designs of course, created during the most turbulent nights, and days when the weather is so bad that even his firebending practice is unthinkable. He keeps them hidden from the rest of the crew. Hidden from Uncle. He’s not really sure why. He knows how Uncle loves the stupidest things, he would probably be delighted that Zuko had learnt such a poor-mans craft. But some long held instinct forces him to keep it a secret, his worrys nagging insesintly in his ears and in his dreams. The crewmen all know how to sew. They have to, with no tailors to fix torn uniforms. But these intricate designs are something completly different from the useful sewing, without purpose or use. 

Sometimes he trades them at ports. Not for much of course, maybe a few in exchange for a couple of strips of leather for the saddles of the Kimodo-Rhinos or for a screwdriver to replace one that had broken. Anything to take the pressure of their ships pitifully small allowence. He puts the unfinished Orca-moose away. He just dosen’t feel like doing anymore of it now. 

#### .......

He glares balefully at Zhao from the wooden seat he’s been forced into out of politness. This single room is decorated more that the entirity of his ship. 

(With the exeption of Uncle’s room of course, that man was like a dragon when it came to collecting items) 

He had been offered tea, but had stiffly declined. He wouldn’t put it past Zhao to have spat in it. From Uncle’s barely noticable grimaces, he can tell that the tea isn’t up to his high standards, but he remains as poilte as always as he delicatly sips from his cup. Zhao smiles at him, the smile of a wolf-bear that’s cornered its prey. 

“I always knew you were untrustworthy. You do dishonor to our great nation by lying about the Avatars whereabouts. The Avatar is too great of a threat to be left in your hands.” 

_The Avatar is just a child!_ He wants to shout. _I can take him, just as I could take you!_

___“I’ve been hunting him for two years.” he says instead, hating the despiration that creeps into his voice. “And-“_ _ _

___“And you failed!” Zhao sweeps his arm back, trailing fire from his fingertips. A stray spark lands next to the beautifully detailed curtains, and Zuko deliberates silently whether to put it out or not. On one hand, it would give him great satisfaction to watch Zhao's room go up in flames, but on the other hand some poor servant would probably be made to pay for it later. A thin stream of ashy smoke begins to drift upwards, and he sighs and discreetly waves his hand, extinguishing the ember. It’s a wonder that Zhao hasen’t set his whole port on fire yet._ _ _

___ _

#### .......

___Later, after the heat of the day has passed, the ship is quiet as they set off once again. The crew look at him with uncharacteristic respect, though he knows it won’t last. A few of them must have found a way to watch his fight against Zhao. Uncle hums a small lilting tune that echoes through the evening air. The nights are cold here, close as they are to the frozen south._ _ _

___“I’m going to bed.” He says, before Uncle can suggest a music night, something Zuko loathes._ _ _

___Uncle looks disappointed, but lets him go._ _ _

___His room is dark as he enters, and he carefully lights a couple of candles, strategically placed aroung the room. Even now he still dosen’t like to sleep next to an open flame. The waves splash gently against the sides of the boat, a rhythmic pattern, push and pull together. He once again pulls the embroidery out from its place of hiding. He feels calmer, now that he's expensed his bubbling anger at Zhao. He picks up the thin needle, and trys to block out the sounds of the sea._ _ _


	4. Numb Hands

He thought he knew what cold was like before.

He was wrong. 

This type of cold is a different breed altogether, lodging itself deep in his bones, and curling round his spine. He breathes in and out, remembering the breath control that Iroh is always asking him to do. It holds the chill at bay, but he still feels the phantom pains, feels the weight of the ocean pushing down on him. The stolon armor he wears is heavy on his shoulders, a constant irritating reminder of how perilous his position is. _His_ crew’s armor had been worn by time; scratches scraped across the surface. Their own hands had been the only ones to fix the undershirts when they tore, and the once careful stitches had become sloppy, designs unreplaced and unremembered. This set of armor looks like it was made yesterday, metal shining in the candlelight and fabric without a smudge of dirt, actual pride put into the work to make it. The necessary symbols are etched in with care, spared from the tarnishes of time. He takes off the faceplate and lays it down beside him. 

There’s no doubt in his mind that it was Zhao who ordered the hit on him. It’s exactly his style; something sneaky and indirect, something that couldn’t be traced back to the _esteemed_ admiral. No doubt he is publicly morning Zuko’s loss this very minute, pinprick tears in his eyes and a heartfelt speech on his tongue. All very proper, very emotional. The very thought of it makes him sick, and he wants to hit something, though he knows his already bruised hands would make him regret it. He wonders if father knows of his ‘death.’ He wonders if father cares. 

Uncle had been quieter than usual the last time they spoke. He had looked at Zuko like he couldn’t believe he was still standing there, like a stray gust of wind would blow him away. He tells him he’s alright, and Uncle sighs and says, 

_“That’s not the point.”_

So, he asks what the point is, and Uncle says, _“I thought you were dead._ ” 

He doesn’t understand. _“But I’m not._ " He says in attempt to cheer him. 

_“But I thought you were._ ” 

And that’s all they say on the matter for the time being. 

This ship is probably at least three times as big as his own one is- _was_. There are many more people methodically doing their jobs, like ant-bees in their hive. He keeps himself as far away from them as possible, hoping nobody will notice how he doesn’t belong. It’s not like he sees much of Zhao’s crew anyway, as he spends most of his time in one of the empty rooms. Uncle usually brings him food at least twice a day, sometimes less if there’s too many people about. He gets by. His only real problem is the boredom. It won’t be long before they reach the North pole, only about a week. But a week is a long time when you’ve got nothing to do but listen to the groans of the engines. 

At first he tries to plan his moves, going over what he will do during his inevitable departure from the ship. But the chill of the room gets to his head, slowing his thoughts. He doesn’t know how people can survive in this cold, how they can even think, with ice running down their veins. The tips of his fingers are numb, and he shoots out small sparks to warm them, forcing life into his hands. It’s strange to think that the place he had begrudgingly called home for over two years has been swallowed by the ravenous ocean, the beast that is never full. He remembers those dreadful hours after he had emerged out of the dark water onto solid land, choking out the liquid from his lungs. Uncle had found him there, and they’d sat for what felt like hours, watching the last remains of the boat sink beneath the waves. He thinks of the embroideries he spent painstaking hours on, now only for the eyes of fish to look on. That is, if the water doesn’t rot them first. 

_Fire burns in an instant, Air carries things away, and Earth buries them out of sight. But Water can preserve things, keep them trapped in its icy grip, slowly decaying over time, until there is nothing left of what used to be._

He wonders idly what he’d be doing now, if he was at home, if he’d never spoken out in that war meeting, _if he’d never been banished_. Probably not freezing his fingers off in a ship he’s not even supposed to be on, bruises covering his face like blue warpaint, burns dotting his wrists from the sparks that flew from the explosion. Maybe he’d be sitting in the gardens, feeding turtleducks or just enjoying the simple fact that the sun was shining. Maybe he could have asked one of the palace tailors to teach him how to improve his sewing, maybe he could have shown father, and he would have been so impressed that he’d let him carry on with it. Maybe, maybe, maybe. There’s no use dwelling on what could have been when there’s no possibility of it happening anytime soon. But sometimes, it really feels like the Spirits are doing their utmost to kill him. He won’t let it happen though. If there’s one thing he’s learnt over the years, it’s that it takes an awful lot to get rid of him, and Zhao isn’t the first one to try. 

He reaches for his faceplate, softly glinting in front of him, and slides it over his face. He’s sick of waiting, and his bruises are beginning to hurt again. Nobody will notice another soldier among hundreds, and the closest supply closet is only a few corridors away. Unfortunately, there isn’t much hope of there being any good medicine, but there ought to be _something_ in his reach, the cupboards of ships like these are always fairly well stocked. He doesn’t want to ask Uncle to find him something, because then Uncle would do something stupid like _worry_ , or think he was too weak to carry on. He doesn’t need anyone to help him. He can take care of himself. 

The corridor is practically empty for once. He hears the stomping of steel boots approaching, and hurriedly straightens himself out, and walks like he has the right to be here, trying his best not to limp. The soldiers pass him without a second glance, their chatting voices fading into the distance as they march on. Most Fire Nation ships are built with roughly the same layout, so he should be able to find his way. Granted, its been a while since he’s been on one this big, but he’s still fairly sure of the direction he needs to go. 

Five minutes later, he’s not so sure. The corridors twist around him, like the many heads of one enormous monster. He feels like banging his head against the wall in frustration. He _should_ know the layout; he spent enough time studying it as a child. He has a lurking suspicion that he’s missed a turn, and with no better options, he doubles back on himself. 

This way looks more promising. He thinks he finds the closet, only to be disappointed as the door opens onto another winding corridor. He shuts the door with a clang that makes him wince, and steps back. Too late he hears echoing footsteps, and he turns around just in time to be confronted with a soldier. 

He stands to attention, preforming the correct signs of respect. The soldier bows back at him, with a much shallower nod of his head to show his apparent position above him. 

“Is there any good reason you’re dawdling around like a headless fish-chicken?” The officer says, as if this sort of duty is beneath him. 

“My _deepest apologies_ , Sir.” he replies in his most respectful manner, almost forgetting to add the sir at the end. 

“I was looking for the supply closet, and I got turned around. I’ve never had a good memory for these corridors you see…” 

His excuse trails off. The officer already looks bored by Zuko’s story. 

“How do you expect to fight if you don’t know your way around your own ship! We’re going into battle soon, and you know what happens if you can’t even find your way out of your ship? You’ll be killed pretty quickly that’s what. The closet’s that way.” He points down the door that Zuko just opened. 

“And don’t let me catch you lost again!” 

He stammers his apologies and makes a quick exit. The journey is smooth going from there, and he makes it back to his room with fresh bandages and cream for his wounds. ‘ _It’s funny_ ,’ he thinks as he once again removes his faceplate, laying it gently on the ground. The last time he bandaged wounds like the small burns dotting his arm was when he was home. Of course, he’s been hurt many times since his father burnt the marks into his arm, but if he looks closely, he still sees the pale scars. And like before, he bandages his wounds alone.


End file.
